The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the day, casting long shadows that danced gently on the walls. Our conversation had left a lingering weight in the air, a quiet heaviness that was neither uncomfortable nor entirely welcome—just a shared understanding of truths that had been spoken and emotions that had been laid bare. Jimin and I sat in the stillness, the echoes of our words settling into the corners of the room.

Just as I was beginning to lose myself in the tranquil aftermath of our exchange, a light knock on the door broke the silence. The woman from earlier, the one who had first greeted me, stepped in with a polite nod. Her presence was as unobtrusive as it was efficient, a quality that seemed almost innate to her.

“Dr. Park,” she addressed Jimin in a professional tone, “Mrs. Shin and her mother are here.”

Jimin looked up at her and gave a slight nod, his expression shifting seamlessly into one of calm professionalism. “Thank you, please call them in,” he replied, his voice steady and composed, as though the emotional depth we had just explored had never happened.

The woman nodded once more and quietly exited the room, leaving the door ajar behind her. As the door clicked softly into place, I turned to Jimin, curiosity sparking in my mind.

“Who is she?” I asked, a simple enough question but one that carried the weight of my newfound interest in the minutiae of his life.

Jimin glanced at me, a small smile playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “My secretary,” he replied casually, as if that explained everything.

I raised an eyebrow, unsatisfied with his vague response. “What’s her name?” I pressed, expecting a straightforward answer.

But to my surprise, Jimin shrugged lightly, his expression unbothered. “I don’t know,” he said, almost nonchalantly.

I blinked at him, momentarily taken aback. “You’ve been working here for a while now,” I pointed out, my voice tinged with incredulity. “How do you not know her name?”

Jimin chuckled softly, a sound that was both amused and self-aware. “I meet so many people, Jk. I can’t possibly remember everyone’s names,” he said, his tone light, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

I couldn’t help but smile at his response, shaking my head slightly at the absurdity of it. “You remember med stuff, though, right?” I asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Jimin’s grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes. “No, I don’t,” he said, his voice full of mischief, as if daring me to challenge him.

I laughed, the sound easing the tension that had lingered in my chest. It was impossible to stay serious around Jimin for too long—he had a way of turning even the most somber moments into something lighter, something that reminded me that life, despite its complexities, could still be simple and full of joy.

Our conversation drifted into a comfortable silence, the earlier heaviness now replaced with a sense of ease.

"But I seriously don't remember everything. Once in a while I need to revise them."

In that moment, I realized that despite everything—despite the unanswered questions, the lingering doubts, and the unspoken truths—there was a beauty in the simplicity of our connection. It was a reminder that not every story needed to be grand or filled with drama. Sometimes, the quiet moments, the lighthearted banter, and the shared silences were enough.

"Okay, anyways, brace yourself, let's see how you do."

"But I didn't read any patient history."

"You'll have to pick on everything in time. They are all here for mental ailment not some revised physical problems. You can never have enough of information."

I opened my mouth to protest, to find some way to delay what felt like an inevitable plunge into unknown waters, but before I could form the words, the door creaked open, and a girl, maybe thirteen years old, hesitantly stepped into the room. Behind her was a woman, her posture rigid, her gaze vigilant and protective—a mother, no doubt, and a fiercely concerned one at that.

“Come in, sweetheart,” Jimin greeted the girl, his voice softening instantly, adopting that gentle, calming tone I had seen him use countless times before. It was as if the very air in the room shifted, becoming lighter, more comforting.

For a brief, fleeting moment, the girl’s face lit up with a genuine smile, her eyes brightening as they met Jimin’s. But just as quickly, the warmth in her expression faded away as Jimin’s gaze inevitably shifted to her mother. The atmosphere grew tense, thickening with an unspoken unease.

The mother’s eyes flicked over to me, her expression hardening as she took in my presence. I could feel her judgement, sharp and palpable, cutting through the air between us. “Who is he, and why is he here?” she demanded, her voice cool and measured, though the undercurrent of suspicion was unmistakable.

Jimin, ever the picture of calm professionalism, didn’t miss a beat. “He’s my student, ma’am,” he said smoothly, his tone unwavering. “He’ll be here today.”

The mother’s gaze remained fixed on me, scrutinizing every inch of my appearance with that same unreadable expression. I could almost feel her trying to decipher whether I was worthy of being in the same room as her daughter, of witnessing the vulnerabilities that would soon be laid bare. It was a disconcerting feeling, one that left me acutely aware of every detail—the stiffness in my posture, the nervous energy buzzing beneath my skin.

But Jimin’s steady presence beside me, his unwavering confidence, was an anchor amidst the swirling doubts in my mind. As he turned his attention back to the girl, offering her a reassuring smile, I felt a small but significant shift within me. I was still uncertain, still out of my depth, but for the first time since entering the room, I found myself breathing a little easier, ready to face whatever came next.

The mother finally tore her gaze away from me, her focus shifting back to Jimin. There was a reluctant acceptance in her posture, a subtle acknowledgment that whatever reservations she held, she would trust him—for now. And as I sat there, silent and observant, I realized that this was the beginning of something entirely new. Not just for the girl who had walked in, but for me as well.

The girl’s small, hesitant steps echoed in the quiet room as she moved closer to Jimin’s desk. Her gaze flickered between the two of us—curiosity and apprehension mingling in her young eyes. The mother, still rigid, settled herself into a chair opposite Jimin, her protective instincts clearly on high alert.

Jimin, ever composed, motioned for the girl to take a seat as well. His movements were gentle, almost unassuming, but there was an underlying authority that couldn’t be ignored. “Why don’t you sit here, sweetheart?” he suggested, his voice a balm to the tension in the room.

The girl nodded slightly and sank into the chair, her small frame almost disappearing into the oversized cushions. She tucked her hands into her lap, fiddling nervously with the hem of her sweater, her eyes avoiding direct contact.

Jimin leaned forward, his posture relaxed yet attentive. “So, how are you feeling today?” he asked, his tone casual but with a softness that invited trust.

She hesitated, casting a quick glance at her mother before speaking in a voice barely above a whisper. “I’m… okay, I guess.”

Jimin nodded, accepting her answer without pushing for more, as he often did with patients in their first moments. His gaze shifted briefly to the mother, offering a reassuring smile before turning back to the girl. “That’s good to hear. You know, sometimes it’s okay to not be okay, too.”

I watched the exchange in silence, feeling like an outsider to this delicate dance of emotions. I had seen Jimin work his magic before, but being so close to it now, observing the subtle shifts in his demeanor, the way he carefully navigated the girl’s guardedness, was something else entirely. It was art in its purest form—an art I was still trying to comprehend.

The mother’s eyes never left Jimin, her suspicion slowly giving way to a reluctant trust. She seemed to understand that despite her reservations about me, Jimin was the person who could help her daughter. And in that silent understanding, the room grew a little less tense.

As the conversation between Jimin and the girl continued, I found myself studying his every move, trying to decipher the unspoken language he was fluent in. It was a masterclass in empathy, and despite the heaviness in my chest from earlier, I couldn’t help but be drawn in, feeling a strange sense of pride in knowing Jimin—a man who had been through so much, now giving others the guidance he once desperately needed.

Minutes passed, the room filled with the gentle rhythm of conversation, broken only by the occasional scribble of Jimin’s pen against paper. The girl’s voice grew a bit stronger with each response, her trust in Jimin building like layers of paint on a canvas, each stroke carefully applied to create something whole.

Just as I began to lose myself in the quiet intimacy of the scene, there was a soft knock on the door. The woman from earlier peeked in, her presence a stark reminder of the world outside this small bubble we’d created. “Dr. Park, your next client is here,” she announced in a polite, almost deferential tone.

Jimin glanced at her and then at me, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thank you. We’ll be just a moment.”

And so the day wore on, each hour meticulously marked by the presence of another soul in need of Jimin's expertise. The little girl, Jiya, had been the first—a fragile wisp of a child whose shy glances belied the depth of her fears. With her, Jimin was gentle, a soft touch of reassurance that coaxed her out of her shell, like a flower slowly blooming under the warmth of the sun.

Next came a man, his demeanor starkly different from Jiya’s. He was stoic, his voice gruff, but Jimin matched him with a quiet calm, meeting his firmness with a steady hand and an understanding nod. The room seemed to shift with the change in energy, the air growing heavier as Jimin tailored his approach to the man’s unspoken needs.

Then, as the day progressed, two divorced couples walked in, their unresolved tensions palpable in the way they sat—stiff, distant, like strangers forced into proximity by circumstance. Jimin’s tone grew more serious, his words carefully chosen, like a mediator threading a needle through the fraying fabric of their lives. There was no room for softness here, only the clear, unvarnished truth that could either mend or further tear apart.

A pregnant woman followed, her body carrying the weight of new life, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. Jimin’s compassion shone through as he spoke to her, offering comfort not just in words, but in the unspoken promise that he would be there to help her navigate the uncertainties ahead. His presence was a balm to her worries, his every gesture imbued with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

But then, there was the young woman who also appeared to be with child, though nothing in her conversation confirmed it. Her demeanor was enigmatic, her words guarded, and with her, Jimin’s approach took on a different tone. He made me take the lead, pushing me into the deep end without warning. My nerves prickled at the thought—I wasn’t good with these kinds of interactions, especially with someone so unpredictable. Why couldn’t he have assigned me someone else? Anyone else?

"I gave you Ms. Lee because you need to look like a student," Jimin had explained with a hint of a smirk. "She would one hundred percent make you uncomfortable, so naturally, that interaction would seem more legit for someone inexperienced."

I couldn’t help but resent him for pushing me under the bus like that. Of course, I was uncomfortable. Not just because she was a girl, but because she was too touchy—her hands lingering on my arm, her fingers brushing against mine in ways that set my nerves on edge. I don’t like touches, not from strangers, and definitely not in such an unfamiliar setting.

"This was much nicer. I've dealt with people far worse," she had said, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Okay, sorry, I'll not do that again."

The audacity!

The encounter left me rattled, a tangle of emotions I couldn’t quite sort through. I wasn’t sure if I was more frustrated with Jimin or with myself for not handling it better.

As we prepared for the next patient, I couldn’t help but ask, "How many are left until Mr. Cha?"

"Just the next one," Jimin replied, his tone calm, as though the day hadn’t been filled with one emotionally charged encounter after another. "I'm waiting for him."

I nodded, trying to steel myself for whatever—or whoever—came next.

The evening had settled in, casting a warm amber glow through the tall windows of Jimin’s chamber. The golden hour, once vibrant and alive, was now giving way to the soft hush of twilight, the room slowly enveloped in the tender embrace of dusk. I could feel the weight of the day in my bones, an unfamiliar heaviness that seemed to grow with each passing hour.

Jimin sat across from me, his posture relaxed but his focus sharp as he diligently noted down the details of each encounter we had shared. His pen moved gracefully across the pages, a fluid motion that belied the weight of the emotions we had sifted through today. I found myself watching him, studying the calm expression on his face. It was as if he wore an invisible armor, one that allowed him to absorb the pain, the fears, the hopes of others without crumbling under the strain.

I was beginning to understand what Antonella had meant when she said that even the therapist needed therapy. It was a job that demanded not just intellect but an extraordinary amount of emotional resilience. The burden of holding another person’s pain, of navigating their darkest thoughts, and still finding the right words to guide them towards healing—it was far more taxing than I had ever imagined. It was as if Jimin had to carry fragments of each person’s soul, pieces of their brokenness, and somehow find a way to help them put it all back together.

As I sat there, contemplating the quiet strength it took to be "Mr. Therapist," I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of admiration for Jimin. This was no simple task, no mere job. It was a calling, a responsibility that required him to remain steadfast, even when the weight of it all threatened to pull him under.

The soft rustle of paper brought me out of my reverie. Jimin had just finished documenting the last patient’s session, his pen finally resting as he leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh. The room was silent for a moment, a brief pause in the day’s relentless rhythm. We were waiting now, both of us aware that the final patient was yet to come.

And then, almost as if on cue, the door creaked open ever so slightly. The sound was gentle, tentative, as if the person on the other side was hesitant to intrude. Slowly, a figure emerged—Mr. Cha, a man who appeared to be in his fifties, perhaps older, with silver strands streaking through his hair and lines etched into his face, the markings of a life lived with its fair share of trials.

He stepped into the room, his presence quiet but commanding, like the entrance of a weary traveler at the end of a long journey. His eyes, though tired, held a certain depth, a story untold, waiting to be unraveled. I could see the fatigue in the way he moved, the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight, one that had perhaps grown heavier with time.

Jimin rose from his chair, his expression warm yet professional, a subtle shift that I had come to recognize. He greeted Mr. Cha with a nod, gesturing for him to take a seat.

"Good evening, Mr. Cha," Jimin said, his voice as soothing as the evening light that bathed the room. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Mr. Cha offered a faint smile, a mere ghost of one, as he took the seat across from Jimin. The room, now settled into the embrace of twilight, felt like a sanctuary—a safe space where burdens could be laid down, if only for a little while.

As I watched the exchange, I found myself once again in awe of Jimin’s quiet strength. Here was a man who had spent the entire day immersed in the complexities of other people’s lives, yet he still had the energy, the patience, to sit with one more person, to listen, to understand, and to help. It was a testament to the kind of man Jimin was.

And in that moment, I began to grasp the true difficulty of this path. It wasn’t just about understanding the human mind; it was about bearing the weight of others’ pain while trying to remain whole yourself. It was a delicate balance, one that Jimin navigated with a grace I could only hope to emulate someday.